


Fatigue

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 06:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11618382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Watson's tired. Holmes is not. ACD. Hurt/Comfort PWP.





	Fatigue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [brothel menu](http://hiddenlacuna.tumblr.com/post/163324240120/grotusque-spacepirateartemis-doc-sarge).

Watson wobbled as he alit from the hansom. I offered him a steadying hand and, to my surprise, he took it. We passed through the door of 221 Baker Street just before dawn.

“Why am I dead on my feet and you fresh as a daisy?” he grumbled as we mounted the stairs.

“Because I started the night’s adventure after a long, restorative afternoon kip on the sofa, not a long, arduous day tending to patients,” I replied.

He grunted.

We divested ourselves of overcoats, hats, and gloves and made ready for bed, but Watson was still clumsy on his feet.

“Watson?” I asked, with no little concern.

“I’m not a doddering invalid!” he protested. “I’m simply tired.”

He took the first step up to his bedroom, teetered, then crashed into the wall.

“Holmes.”

In an instant, I was by his side.

“Sometimes, I believe I missed my vocation as a gentleman’s gentleman,” I said lightly as we moved together up the stairs.

When the bedroom door had closed behind us, Watson replied, “You wouldn’t have survived below stairs, Holmes.”

The heat in his eyes made me bold, reckless. “For the right gentleman, I might have tried,” I purred.

He gifted me with a wicked smile, then silently gave himself over to my ministrations, leaning into my touch as I divested him of coat, shirt, and undershirt.

I confess a sigh when his torso was finally bared to my gaze.

I watched his eyes rest on my mouth and his own lips purse as if of their own volition.

Then his head dropped. So did mine.

Boots.

I eased him to sitting on the edge of the bed, then fell to my knees.

In an instant, I could’ve buried my face in his crotch, freed my prick, and spent myself right there on the threadbare rug, so great was my want, but his voice, full of apology, cut through my lust-fog.

“Holmes, I’m so bloody tired,” he said slowly.

I looked up, but could not bear his doleful expression, so I shushed him and turned my attention back to the double-knotted laces.

When his feet were bared, I gasped.

“Watson!”

“Yeah, these dogs are barking, as my gran would say.”

“Stay,” I said, continuing the metaphor, and flew downstairs to my bedroom.

When I returned, I hardly noticed that he had stripped himself of his trousers.

I dropped my kit on the floor. “The water is not warm, but the towels are.”

I reached for his foot, then stopped and looked up.

“May I?”

What a delicious moment it was. The request hanging in the air. His gaze as caressing I imagined his hands to be.

He swallowed. His eyes teared. “I’m yours to be used,” he whispered roughly. Then he leaned back onto the bed until his back was flat upon it.

I cleaned. I warmed. I clipped.

And then my worship began in earnest.

“Fuck!” he breathed the first time that my thumbs pressed along his arch.

I watched as a tremor ran through his body and felt a swell of lover’s pride.

“Your hands, Holmes.”

“An extraordinary delicacy of touch. Adept at manipulating fragile, philosophical instruments. Or so you say.”

He gripped the bedding as I massaged his heels. He stifled a heavy yawn, then said,

“Holmes, I may fall asleep.“

“I certainly hope so, as that is the aim of the exercise, my dear fellow.”

He pushed up on bent forearms. “You may,” he hesitated, “do with me what you wish at any time.”

The feral lover roared. The gentleman demurred.

“You give me far too much license, Watson.”

He nodded, then slumped back on the bed.

I stopped when his even breath turned to snore and tucked him into his bed. Then I collected my things and padded downstairs.

I took my own prick in hand as soon as was practical and brought myself to crisis with what was, even for me, a ruthless efficiency.

And then, with the sharp edge blunted, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and took up my violin.

I closed my eyes, listened to Watson’s snores wafting down the stairs, and began to play.

And where the music went!

Nowhere noble, I confess.

I spun a depraved fantasy of myself a courtesan and Watson the gentleman who’d hired me for the night.

A menu of possibilities opened before us and a shower of coins rained down.

Everything was for the trying.

The notes rang out low and gravelly at the delicious burn of his cock stretching me while his filthy murmured promises warm the shell of my ear. There was a high-pitched straining vibrato as he sought to tuck a little finger aside his sunk cock. And a flurry of notes as he came, flooding my arse with his hot seed. And another frenzy when he licked his drippings from my hole. There was a comical, music hall tune as he sat me in his lap, diddling me on the edge of the bed with one foot upon the floor. And a deep, hollow groan as I buried my tongue into his hole, then my fingers, then my sex, stones and all, because why not?

There were goose quills, there were silk ties, there was honey.

I sucked his toes and licked his arches and kissed his heels.

I found my release, over and over, like a fountain. On his chest. On his feet. Down his throat. Deep inside him, once more.

It seemed, at one point, there were many of him, scuttling me, suckling me, fucking me, filling me.

I let the violin sound my moans, my pleas, my shuddering cries of his name.

I played on and on until at last, I discovered, to my surprise, I was tired.

So I stowed my violin in its case, strode into my bedroom, kicked the door closed, and collapsed atop the bed.

I freed my prick and wrapped my fingers ‘round it, thinking to give myself a final tug before drifting off, but…

Queen Mab was quicker.

* * *

I woke to a sudden warmth ‘round my stiff hand, which was still shamefully clasped ‘round my now-flaccid member.

“Good morning,” I mumbled to no one.

Oh, to be caught like the saddest of Saturday night drunks in a doorway on Sunday morning!

But my humiliation faded at the reply and the realisation that the warmth was Watson’s hand ‘round mine.

“It’s afternoon, my dear Holmes,” he said, drawing my hand away and replacing it once more with his own. “And I’ve had the most wicked dream. Shall I tell you about it?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
